Fortune Favours the Brave
by Cardio Necrosis
Summary: For a man in his forties, Wilson was as clueless as ever. He didn't know where he was going, how he was getting there, or even if he wanted to go. It all just seemed foreign to him and instead of seeing House like he wanted, all he saw was Sam.


Fortune Favours the Brave

The midday sun filtered in through the windows and grey clouds, giving the appearance it was much later than half past noon. The dreary look of the sky outside seemed to affect the atmosphere inside; the melancholic weather attached itself to the walls and shiny floors of the hospital, and infected its occupants like an airborne virus.

Wilson tried to brighten the situation with a smile to everyone he passed, but he doubted it would work considering he was also bogged down by the strange haze of unpleasantness. He smiled at a passing nurse before walking into House's office, the blinds drawn and lights off, which gave it an even darker, ominous feel.

Wilson didn't bother to greet House or announce his presence, and very calmly sat down in the seat that House would've reserved for meetings with patients if he actually had meetings with patients, but since he didn't Wilson was almost the only person who had ever occupied it. House wasn't sitting across from him at the moment; instead, he looked out of the window-or he would've been, if the blinds hadn't been drawn. He had his cane firmly planted in front of him as he stared at nothing, and Wilson waited patiently, contemplating the array of Chinese takeout on House's desk, apparently untouched.

"Penny for your thoughts," Wilson aired after the silence stretched longer than he'd expected.

House sighed and finally turned, milling over to his chair and plopping into it. "That would cost more than a penny," he groused, then picked up a small box and tossed it at Wilson. "Eat up."

Wilson reached forward and grabbed a fork, bypassing the chopsticks that House gravitated towards. House used them as easily as he used forks and spoons; Wilson had never had the luxury of travelling to Asia and learning to use them. He sifted through the rice for some kind of meat, but found none. He glanced up at House to see him contemplating the chow mein wrapped around his chopsticks, before slowly chewing them with his brows furrowed.

They ate in silence, the windows blocking even the sound of the wind outside. The differential diagnosis room and the halls were empty, so no barely-audible conversations or footsteps drifted through the glass windows to distract from the utter silence, the only sound being them chewing and scraping plastic silverware and wooden sticks across the food containers.

Wilson finished before House, but only barely. House reached into the bag and pulled out a fortune cookie. He didn't open it though-he just turned it over in his hand repeatedly, staring at it as he often stared at his giant tennis ball as he mulled over a case.

"So, what's the occasion?" Wilson asked casually, watching House carefully. His blue eyes ticked away form the package and met Wilson's, his brows furrowed in confusion and head tilted slightly. "You bought takeout with your own money," he elaborated.

House sighed and looked back at the unopened fortune cookie. "It wasn't for you. I thought Cuddy would like some lunch."

"You buy lunch for Cuddy?"

"She wasn't hungry," he went on as if he hadn't heard Wilson talk, before tearing open his cookie.

Wilson twisted his mouth in what he hoped was a sympathetic grimace. If he were to be honest, he really wasn't surprised, but rather than voicing that fact he just leaned forward and reached into the bag, pulling out the fortune cookie that had originally been intended for Cuddy, just like the lunch he'd eaten. "My condolences," he said to fill the silence because it was what was expected of him, and looked at the wrapped fortune.

"Don't bother," House muttered, then broke his cookie in half, leaving the wafers on his desk while he read it.

Wilson watched as House's mouth twisted into a scowl, and then he crumbled up the sliver of paper and tossed it into the bin. "What did it say?"

"Something about the stock market. It wasn't important." Obviously that wasn't true and whilst Wilson was curious as to what it said and why it would elicit that reaction from House, he knew asking would get him nowhere.

Wilson contemplated his own fortune cookie, then decided what he was talking about with House was more important. He tucked it into his front pants pocket and sat forward slightly.

House scoffed. "Don't do that. Don't put on your caring face."

Wilson slumped. "It wasn't about Cuddy," he lied, even though he knew House wouldn't fall for it. House just scoffed and shook his head slightly, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling. "Even after yesterday's patient, she's-"

"Yeah," House forestalled, interlocking his hands behind his head. "Even though we all thought I was dying, she still . . ."

Wilson sighed and shifted in his seat awkwardly. Like the rest of the hospital, he'd heard all about House darting into the quarantined room and exposing himself to what they'd thought to be smallpox. He'd endangered himself to prove a point, like usual, only he hadn't been right. By the time Wilson had found out, everything had settled and everybody had been declared safe and treatable, except for the dead father.

"Have you ever noticed that every time you almost die, or, I don't know, actually manage to kill yourself, I'm-"

"Not there? Yeah, I prefer it that way," he interrupted, still staring at the ceiling.

"What? Wh-why would you say that?"

House shrugged, still contemplating the ceiling. "Watching Cuddy freak out was bad enough. I wouldn't want you to . . ." He shifted in his seat awkwardly, then tilted his head down so he could look at Wilson. "I'm fine, Wilson. I lived through it; nobody has to hold my hand and offer comforting platitudes as I head towards the light. No biggie."

Wilson rubbed his face and sighed. "One of these days, House-"

"Well that day isn't today, and it wasn't yesterday, either. Drop it." His tone left no room for discussion, despite the fact Wilson was teeming with it. House meant more to him than he would ever admit in fear of ridicule, and the idea of House getting himself killed bothered him; more than bothered him, actually. Sometimes, late at night, the idea would hit him moments before sleep and fill him with a crippling, gut-freezing fear.

Wilson sat back in his chair and looked at his lap, biting his tongue to prevent himself from forcing the issue, and trying to beat back the prickling sensation in his eyes.

"She asked me to choose between her and my patient, Wilson. She's acting like I'm in the wrong, and she won't let it go. She thought I was dying and she still won't let it go."

Wilson cleared his throat, taking the topic of discussion he was given as a distraction from the many ways House could end up killing himself, and faced his friend. "You lied to her," he pointed out rationally.

"To save my patient," House added as if that settled it, and, well, it pretty much did. For him, anyway. For Cuddy? Apparently not. "She didn't ask me to prove it to cover her ass. She didn't do it to go by the book. Hell, before we dated, she wouldn't have asked at all. No, she asked, not for the red tape crap, but to prove my damn _respect_ for her. To prove that she had my balls dangling on her damn necklace for her to tug around when she gets nervous."

"You chose what to do. You chose to lie to her when you knew this was a consequence. I told you."

"I know, Wilson," he spat, scowling at him. House clenched his teeth together, then pushed out of his chair, grabbing the cane he'd rested against his desk, and started pacing. His limp made his movements jerky. "But I shouldn't have had to pick in the first place! She wasn't asking for evidence-she was asking for undeniable proof that she _knew_ I couldn't give her-not because I was doing a dangerous treatment that could kill the guy-but to prove that I put our _relationship_ first-put it _before_ the patient! What the hell did she think I would do? Let my patient kick the bucket to prove something to her? She's putting our relationship before our jobs in the damn workplace!"

Wilson sighed. "You knew that would happen when you started having sex with her, House. Don't act like you didn't."

House stopped pacing and turned to face Wilson, scowl still twisting his features. "Why do you do that?"

Wilson shifted awkwardly. "Do . . . what? What are you . . . ?"

"You never say we're in a relationship. You always say 'sex with Cuddy' but never anything else. Not relationship, not girlfriend . . ." Wilson opened his mouth to deny it, but knew that it was true. He didn't realize it as he was already aware; referring to House and Cuddy as a couple made his chest tighten and burn; it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

"Look, House," Wilson began as he stood out of his chair, "the harsh truth is that when you are in a relationship, you're going to get tested. You're smart enough to know when one's coming up so, basically, it's up to you to decide if you want to pass or not. You came to me for advice and I-I gave you the options. Either choose the personal consequences or the medical ones. And you . . . Well, you chose the personal ones. You can't even say you had no idea what she was doing when you did it."

House narrowed his eyes at him and bit down on his lip, before his pink tongue flicked over the spot he'd just bitten and he took a step forward. "You didn't answer the question."

Wilson rubbed his brow and took a step backwards, the side of his hip hitting the chair so it squeaked along the floor. His eyes darted to the floor and then to the glass window leading to the differential room, peripherally aware of the fact House was stalking closer. "Look, I don't-I don't mean to, I didn't even realize-" He cleared his throat and looked at House's forehead. "House, you-you lied to her. It's-well, and she found out. Women are . . . Well, notorious for, um-for holding grudges. If yesterday didn't make her realize that her-her having issues with what you did is petty, then you'll just have to wait it out."

"Try saying that again without stuttering," House insisted, blue eyes focused on him like a hawk staring at its prey. "You're nervous."

Wilson let out an incredulous laugh that sounded more like a choked scoff. He put his hands on his hips and smiled at him for some reason; the smile was all teeth and he could even feel how fake it looked on his own face. "I'm not-I'm not nervous. I'm just letting you know. You lied to her, and, well, most people tend to get upset when they find out they've been lied to, most of all the person you're having-" House's eyebrows shot up his forehead and one corner of his mouth quirked upward in a knowing smirk. "Having a relationship with," he quickly amended although he wasn't dumb enough to believe House bought it. "You put your patient before her, and-and rightly so. Hell, you would've put your patient before me and, well, you've lied to me a million times before, so . . ." He shrugged and swallowed the dry lump in his throat, catching House's eyes and knowing that he was pleading him to drop the subject despite knowing he wouldn't, and even if he did, he would ponder over it for hours and bring it up again later.

Still, if he waited until later to bring it up, at least then Wilson would have time to think of something to say besides just not wanting to admit there was something more to House and Cuddy than sex.

House looked away from Wilson for a second, before meeting his gaze again, but this time there was a different gleam in his eyes-something less intrusive, and more expressive. "I've put you before a patient before. Cuddy . . . saw fit to remind of that." He tapped his cane against the carpet, eyes flicking around the room.

Wilson dropped his hands from his hips just to rub at his forehead and shift his weight onto his other foot awkwardly. "I . . . I was leaving, House. And you still treated the patient anyway, so . . ."

"I wouldn't have," he insisted, and Wilson knew that was the truth. He'd known it the moment House put the pager on his desk and walked away and tried to ignore the ache in his chest as he'd left despite that. "She knows it, too. She knows I put you before the patient, and I would again. And she . . . doesn't understand why I wouldn't for her."

"That was different. I was leaving. She . . . She wasn't. Isn't. House, I don't-"

"If she didn't forgive me after almost dying-well, thinking I was going to die-over me doing my job . . . Well, I guess we're just as doomed as you and Sam."

"What? Sam and I are just fine."

House scoffed. "Please. It didn't work out the first time around, why would you-"

"We're thinking about getting pregnant," he blurted, and he really had no idea why. They hadn't discussed it at all; he'd made a comment about her getting pregnant, and then they went home and had sex. Despite what had happened yesterday, he saw Sam take her daily birth control pill and Wilson had secretly been a little pleased.

Still, House had no way of knowing that.

"What?" The disgust in his voice was obvious. "Are you insane or just stupid?"

"I'm not stupid, House."

"Right, you just impulsively decided to knock up your girlfriend. Yeah, totally a genius idea."

"It's what people do, House. They get married, they have kids-what's so wrong with that?"

"Life is not a checklist, Wilson. What the hell possessed you to-"

"Well, why not?"

"Why not? _Why not?"_ House seethed. "First off, the guarantee you two won't last is-"

"You don't know that!"

"Oh, please, Wilson! You two got divorced less than two years into your marriage and you haven't even been dating a full year the second time around, and you decide, hell, why not skip the whole post-honeymoon phase and head right into child bearing! Are you _that_ moronic?"

"We've been getting along a lot better than the first-"

"Oh, bullshit!" House snapped. "You can't tell me that the first time you two dated it wasn't exactly like this! I'm sure it was all well and good before the marriage the first time around, too!"

"Sam and I know what we're getting into this time; we've matured since-"

"Why the hell would you want to have a kid with her? You'd be a terrible father!"

Well, _that_ was just below the belt. "I'm great with children!"

"No you're great with dying people. You hold their hands and offer them comforting platitudes about an afterlife I doubt you still believe in. It's not about their age; it's about the fact they _need_ you; and there's a hell of a difference between jamming chemo into their balding little heads and being the emotional vampire, sucking on their need for you, and actually raising one. Ask any doctor in this hospital what his relationship with his own children is like-I guarantee it'll suck. You're married to your job; you wouldn't be any better a father than you are a husband!"

Without realizing it, they'd moved so they were standing inches from each other, yelling into each other's faces, and Wilson threw his hands in the air angrily. "This isn't about my capability and you know it House! You just don't want to share me."

"What, and like you'd be willing to give me up? Please, you'd spend more time on my couch than with the parasitic tyke." Anger charged the air around them; spittle flew from House's mouth and Wilson clenched his teeth tightly in a growl, face inches from House's and heart pounding in his ribcage.

"Why do you _always_ do this, House? Why is that _every_ time I want something that doesn't involve catering to _your_ every need that you have to-you throw a fit! You can't let me have anything, can you? Any time I even _try_ you're showing up with-with hookers and sabotaging dinners-calling me up at all hours of the night-_breaking_ into my apartment to threaten my girlfriend-and now I-I want a child and it's-it's like I've-_why?" _he shouted.

"You know why," he stated, voice low and threatening. The heat of the argument shifted suddenly; ran through him like a bolt of electricity, and a sinking, cold feeling filled Wilson's gut instead.

Wilson backed away slightly, suddenly uncomfortable with the fact their noses were mere inches apart. He opened his mouth to speak, but failed and made a few awkward vowel sounds before looking around House's office as if looking for assistance he knew wouldn't come.

House advanced and Wilson backed away, shaking his head slightly; like a panicking rabbit cornered by a hound dog.

"You know why, Wilson. Say it."

"I'm-I don't know what-"

"Why I hate you dating. Why I hate the idea of you with a wife and kids. You know."

"No," he insisted and backed into the chair he'd been sitting in. He almost tripped but he managed to keep his balance. "House, I have no idea what-"

"Why don't you like admitting Cuddy and I are dating?" he demanded, eyes like daggers. "Why did you buy me the organ, Wilson? I know you're not that stupid. Tell me why."

Wilson moved to leave the office, but House stepped in front of him. "Just tell me, Wilson."

"I'm not-" he began, then cut off.

"What? What aren't you?"

"I'm not having this discussion," he said, moved past House, and left the office.

Perhaps in a different universe House would have stayed behind, but Wilson heard the tell-tale noises of his cane against the linoleum and he walked faster. When House wanted to finish a discussion, he'd finish it-regardless of whether Wilson stormed off. He slid into the elevator and turned around to see limping towards him. He punched a random floor and then hit the door close button.

It slid shut just as House made it to the doors.

Wilson pressed his face into his palms, and sucked in a breath. House's words smacked him right in the chest. He was right, of course-he knew why House didn't like to share him, just as he knew why he couldn't admit that maybe, just maybe, there was something else to House and Cuddy besides sex. It was stupid. He couldn't go through with it; he wasn't House, for God's sake. He couldn't just . . . _do_ what he wanted; especially not now, not with the both of them involved. It was safer to just remove himself from the situation than . . . But it was too late for that now. House had called attention to it, the first unwritten rule they'd ever made. They just didn't talk about things. Especially things like _that_.

The ding brought him out of his thoughts abruptly and for a minute he forgot where he was. He stepped out onto the floor he'd randomly pushed and, glancing out of the windows, he saw that it had finally started to drizzle.

The pattering sound it made faded into the distance as he milled down the hall. He didn't even bother smiling at the nurse he passed.

* * *

The rest of the day, Wilson kept looking over his shoulder, expecting House to burst into his life at any moment and force it out of him. But it never came-Wilson didn't actively avoid him. After all, unlike House, Wilson actually did his job. He couldn't avoid his meetings or his clinic hours, or his rounds. If House had wanted to find him, it would've been easy, so Wilson had to conclude that House had decided to drop it for the time being.

Or possibly just pretend it never happened.

At this point, both scenarios were likely. As much as Wilson wanted to pretend that he was unsure of how House felt, he really couldn't. There had been times he was more than sure; he'd been certain, and he'd run off then, too. Perhaps not literally, but it wasn't a coincidence that every time it seemed like House was about to force the issue to light he found a woman to distract himself. And House, like him, went back to acting like nothing had transpired; as if they were perfectly normal. They would just go through the cycle again and go back to not talking about it.

Or maybe House wouldn't. Maybe House would force it out of him, and then . . . Then what? Wilson was so afraid of what would happen next if they ever actually did something about it he'd never allowed himself to let his mind wander there. There was a real chance that they might actually have to talk about it though, but even still, he didn't want to think about it. After all, what could they do? They were best friends; best _male_ friends. They couldn't just . . .

Wilson left work as early as he could, which was later than he'd hoped (and later than normal too, since Ken Andrews had shown up late to their meeting) but by the time he'd made it home, Sam was almost finished with dinner.

He changed his clothes first, naturally; he hated staying in them as it made him feel like he was still at work if he didn't. He'd changed into a hoodie, as it was a little chilly, and a pair of jeans. When he habitually emptied out his pockets he pulled free the fortune cookie, still in its wrapping. It had broken in half, the crack large enough for him to see one of the numbers on the back; his lucky string of numbers, apparently.

House had bought lunch for Cuddy; House never bought lunch for Wilson. It didn't seem right; House didn't do the paying. The fact that he'd bought Chinese for him and Cuddy hurt more that Wilson would have expected-take-out was their thing, not his and Cuddy's. Then again, what _was_ House and Cuddy's thing? Did they have anything they liked to do besides sex? And House wondered why Wilson only referred to their relationship in a sexual way.

Trying to apologize to Cuddy with Chinese wasn't very bright, even if he ordered vegan rice. It was _their_ thing; pushing it onto Cuddy wouldn't help. He thumbed the plastic surrounding the fortune and realized that House had no idea how to interact with Cuddy at all; instead, he tried to treat her as Wilson. He wondered how well that would go when he kept her up to watch infomercials.

The cookie he held in his hand was originally meant for Cuddy, but it had instead ended up in his hands. He didn't really believe in fate or prophecy or pieces of paper inside cookies having some sort of deeper meaning. Still, was the fortune meant for her, or was it meant for him? It was stupid, but maybe it was supposed to bypass Cuddy and end in his hands. Or maybe it was stock market advice.

"Are you hungry?" Sam asked and he stuffed the cookie into the large pocket across his abdomen in his hoody.

"Sorry. I just . . . got lost in thought," he explained and she smiled at him.

He followed her out of his room and sat across from her at the table, where she'd set up plates already. His back faced the kitchen so that he could see the living room and television, but she'd turned it off. Sam had a thing where they had to eat at the table without TV. He preferred watching TV with House on the couch, stuffing their faces although he would never tell her that. Come to think of it, he would never tell House that either.

Sam talked about her day and Wilson heard her, but he didn't really listen. He knew enough to give an appropriate response when it was needed, but he wouldn't recall a damn thing she said that night. All he thought of were House's eyes and what they'd shouted at each other. Would House force the confrontation or would he just let it disappear?

Wilson didn't really eat his food so much as pick at it idly and put it in his mouth and chew out of habit. He didn't really taste it, although he knew at some level it tasted great. He kept going over what House had said about Wilson being a horrible father; about the fact he and Cuddy were as doomed as he was with Sam.

"Are you all right?"

Wilson looked at Sam instead of at his sour cream and chive mashed potatoes. "I'm sorry?"

"I asked if you were okay. You seem a little . . . Did one of your patients . . . ?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that," he said with a comforting smile, although it was half-hearted. "I . . . Do you want kids?" he asked, and his stomach twisted at the thought of what her answer could be although he didn't know which answer he dreaded.

She blinked a few times as if the question had come entirely out of left field, although it hadn't since they'd dealt with that child together yesterday. He'd even made that comment about her getting pregnant, too. It really had been a matter of time before one of them brought it up. "What, like . . . now, or eventually?"

"Just . . . at all, really."

Sam tilted her head and shifted in her seat. "I don't know what you want me to say, James."

"It's not about what I want to hear, Sam."

She opened her mouth but nothing came out; her eyes were blank and her shoulders slumped slightly. In that moment, she looked just like the woman he knew when they first met; she'd been on campus and had no idea where to go and had asked him for directions. Now, though, the utterly lost expression on her face had nothing to do with the inability to find the right building, and Wilson realized the feeling was mutual.

He just didn't know where to go from here.

For a man in his forties, he was as clueless as ever. He didn't know where he was going, how he was getting there, or even if he wanted to go. The subject of marriage, children, love, what was going to happen between him and House . . . He didn't know. It all just seemed entirely foreign to him suddenly, and instead of seeing House like he wanted, he just saw Sam, a little girl with nothing to say.

Were he with House, being lost together could be an adventure; like a road trip they didn't plan. With Sam, it was frightening.

"I don't know," she admitted quietly.

"Neither do I."

He should have known. Maybe he did know and he just didn't want to admit that he didn't want what he'd planned for himself years ago; maybe he didn't want to follow the path he'd told himself he'd wanted.

"Are you finished eating?" she asked, although it was obviously just to fill the silence.

Glancing at his plate, he saw that he clearly wasn't. The mashed potatoes were a little less than half gone; he hadn't touched his steak; his peas were the only thing with a noticeable dent. He wasn't hungry and he knew if he didn't eat now he would probably be hungry later. Sighing, he pushed his plate away. "I'm just not very hungry tonight," he muttered, and shifted his focus from his plate to Sam.

Grief replaced the lost expression on her face and the ache in his chest intensified. The two of them were great at pretending they were the perfect couple, just like the first time around, but he couldn't help but feel the lack of genuine connection. When he came home she smiled at him in a practiced way and he went about his day the same way he went about his work schedule; without any real thought behind it. He wasn't excited to come home and see her anymore and he knew she wasn't either. They had moments, of course; seeing her with that child, knowing she had a hard time with kids, filled him with something; a glimmer of what could be, even if it shouldn't. He wouldn't say he didn't care for her because he did but . . .

He knew, and he could see it on her face, that they wouldn't last; he'd always known, but he hadn't really admitted it to himself. The prospect of actually going through with it scared him but he'd made the mistake of crossing the line just a few hours ago. It was inevitable-there wasn't an option. House wasn't going to let it slide into the realm of unmentionable topics, not since he'd actually spoke of it.

Sam slid out of her chair and then stacked his plate atop hers, walking past him and into the kitchen. She didn't squeeze his shoulder or smile at him. He winced at the annoying sound the fork scraping across the plate made as she dumped his uneaten food in the garbage. Sam wasn't a fan of left-over food in the fridge. House hadn't ever minded.

Wilson reached into his pocket and pulled out the fortune cookie, turning it over in his hands in a way similar to House had with his; he opened the plastic and dropped the wafers to the table, pulling free the paper.

_The love of your life is sitting across from you._

As far as fortunes went, it was silly. Nobody sat across from him; Sam would've been, but she was meticulously cleaning the plate in the sink, something she only did when she was annoyed. Perhaps if he'd opened it in House's office after eating his food, when he'd intended . . .

He looked up at the empty space in front of him, and saw the couch; the couch on which he and House had spent hours watching infomercials, porn, and ridiculous television shows; the coffee table that had started an argument because House refused to keep his dirty shoes off of it.

House was everywhere he looked; in the carpet, where he'd once decided to lie down to listen to his iPod, and Wilson had tripped over him; the walls that House had pretended to contemplate painting purple the time Wilson interrupted his picnic with Norah; the cushions from the chairs and couch that they'd used to make a fort one night for no reason whatsoever, except House somehow managed to get Wilson to do the strangest things.

His eyes settled on the organ; the organ Sam had wanted to move, but Wilson had refused and never specified why since neither of them played. He remembered seeing House play it for the first time, and he knew then that House had no excuse not to know what he felt.

As far as fortunes went, he decided it wasn't silly at all.

* * *

House wasn't a moron. In fact, he prided himself on being the opposite of one. Even still, he supposed he wasn't immune to making moronic choices, and the more he continued his relationship with Cuddy, the more it felt like a mistake. It was constant work just to keep her not completely miserable; forget about happy. He hadn't once seen her genuinely happy since they got together. Come to think of it, he hadn't been, either. It was like one, big cycle of doing jobs. She was becoming more of a duty than a girlfriend. If anything, her deciding that him showing respect by doing something she wouldn't have bothered to ask of him before they were dating was more important than his patient and curing his patient his way had proved to him that this was one complete failure. Interfering with the way he did his job could only have one outcome, and he didn't think either of them wanted to see it. If they continued what they were doing, not only would they break up (which was inevitable and he knew it) but they wouldn't be able to work in the same hospital. One of them would have to leave, and it didn't matter who-either way, if Cuddy wasn't the Dean, he would lose his job.

Add that to the fact Wilson was being an idiot, well . . .

He could have pretended to be blissfully unaware of everything around him, just like Wilson obviously pretended to do. He could have kept it all quiet and not mentioned anything, but it was difficult when Wilson blatantly referred to House and Cuddy as purely a sexual relationship which, well, was more true than not.

He'd thought about it more than once. He'd thought about it a lot, especially when they were living together, but it was difficult to trust his instincts when every single time they got close to making it to that point, Wilson turned tail and ran. Not that House blamed him; Wilson could tear open his chest and shred his heart to pieces if he wanted, and it wouldn't even be all that difficult, and the fear was crippling. He knew Wilson thought about it, but he also knew Wilson would never admit it to himself and after awhile it just seemed like he would never allow it happen.

But then he had to go and make the dumbest decision he could've made-deciding to have a kid. House had seen how much of Cuddy's life Rachel was a part of; being a parent was not easy. If Wilson had a child of his own, House knew that would be it. He'd never allow himself to leave Sam if they had a kid together, and all of his non-work, non-Sam time would be spent on the child. He would lose his best friend, and have no one to go to when Cuddy inevitable ended up kicking his ass to the curb. Even if Wilson and Sam broke apart, he'd still have the kid, and Wilson wasn't the type to sit idly by and throw child support at the kid's face as a form of parenting. There would be ball games and joint custody and House would forever be on the backburner.

All because he wouldn't accept the fact he just wasn't cut out for the whole nuclear family crap.

House couldn't hold it back any longer, because he knew Wilson knew; he knew that they could both see and feel it. But what had Wilson done, like usual? Ran off.

Maybe it wasn't worth the effort to chase after him again. After all, it was all they ever did. Get closer and closer, and then Wilson would run off and House would chase after him, and start the cycle over.

The fear was crippling, and House had always been the braver out of the two. Braver, sure, but apparently not brave enough. Wilson ran off, and House never seriously pursued. He'd wanted to this time, of course, and had even started to, but the more he thought about it . . . Well, if Wilson was that against the idea of accepting it, maybe he would just have to deal with it.

Knocks on the door tore him out of his reverie; he looked at the half-empty glass of scotch. It was still cool in his fingers, the condensation dripping down the glass, and he sighed, putting it on the coffee table. He knew that hurried knock; it was Wilson.

He limped towards the door without his cane and opened it. Wilson stood there in his jacket, water dripping across his skin and darkening his damp hair. He wasn't soaked, but he was wetter than he should've been considering the walk from the Volvo to his apartment wasn't that far, so House assumed he'd paced awhile before coming inside. Wilson's eyes were large; his pupils dilated. His left hand was opening and closing into a fist. He shifted his weight.

"Hi," Wilson greeted awkwardly, looking past House and clearing his throat.

House didn't say anything; just raised his eyebrows.

Wilson cleared his throat again. "Sam and I aren't going to work," he blurted.

"Yeah, I know." Wilson nodded and his eyes darted around the hallway. "Join the club," House added a bit ruefully.

Wilson chuckled nervously and then rubbed the back of his neck. "May I-" He bit down on his lip, the gestured towards House vaguely with the hand he'd been rubbing his neck with. "Can I . . ." He gestured towards the apartment again.

House nodded and took a small step back, opening the door a bit more. Wilson stepped forward, but didn't move past House-just stood directly in front of him, eyes wide and face wet.

House furrowed his brows and held onto the doorknob tighter. Was Wilson going to . . . ?

With cold, pruney fingers Wilson touched House's lips; barely stroked them, fingers shaking. He brushed the side of House's face with the back of his knuckles, streaking water through House's beard, and all the while he remained staring at House as if, at any moment, he was expecting a violent reaction; he was scared.

House wouldn't admit it, but he was too.

Wilson held House's chin between his thumb and forefinger, then leaned in slowly. He hesitated for a second, then brought their lips together as his eyes slid shut. House didn't close his eyes; he stood still as Wilson kissed him again, lips wet and cold and body shivering against House's.

When Wilson kissed him the third time, House allowed his eyes to close and he nudged the door hard enough for it to click shut. He tilted his head and closed his mouth around Wilson's. Wilson sucked in a surprised breath, and House, always an opportunist, used that moment to sneak in his tongue, even if just briefly.

Hesitantly, they both deepened the kiss, and House rested his hands on Wilson's hips, unsure of where else to put them, and Wilson did the same. His hands were freezing and he clutched at House's tee, and his breath shook as much as his body did, but House didn't push him away; he continued kissing him.

Wilson's mouth was warm compared to the rest of his body and the kiss grew more confident; less unsure. They moved closer, chests pushing against one another, and House was sure Wilson could feel the rapid thumping of his heart; could feel the goosebumps along his skin; the electricity jump from his skin to Wilson's.

They pulled away, just enough for their mouths to separate, their foreheads still resting together. He listened to the both of them breathe, unwittingly at the same time, and then Wilson dropped his head to House's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him in an embrace.

Wilson was cold, but House wrapped his arms around his back and held him close, turning his head a little to smell the rain in his hair. "You're freezing," he commented, before smiling against Wilson's ear.

"Sorry-I can-" He moved to pull away.

House held onto him tighter to prevent him from leaving, and Wilson relaxed against him, nuzzling against the side of his face.

"House . . ."

He cleared his throat. "Yeah?"

"What did your fortune say?"

Confused, House pulled away just enough to look into Wilson's face. "Is it important?" Wilson didn't say anything, but his big puppy dog eyes said all. Sighing, House rolled his eyes and sagged his shoulders. "You are worth loving. You are also worth the effort it takes to love you."

Wilson smiled for the first time in days; it lit up his face and, even though he knew it was storming outside, everything seemed to brighten. The fortune sounded less sickening when he was connecting it with Wilson and not with Cuddy. Wilson leaned forward and kissed him again, tenderly, and then pressed his forehead against House's briefly.

"What did yours say?" House asked.

Wilson opened his mouth to asnwer, but then he jsut smiled and he carressed House's mouth with his own; flicked his tongue against House's bottom lip and chuckled against his chin. They sidled even closer together, and desptie the fact WIlson was damp and cold, House really didn't mind holding him against him.

With a small hum, Wilson finally pulled away far enough to look House in the eye and say; "Stock market advice."

* * *

A/N - Yeah, I know, it's been forever since I've posted anything, so I hoped to try and hammer something out in hopes it would open the door to inspiration. Much thanks to theletterv, my other half, typo-catcher, and all around awesome guy.


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